


Sam’s Favorite Color Is Green

by cucumbercrust (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), M/M, Non consensual turned consensual spanking, POV Third Person, Sam’s POV, Spanking, Weecest, as he should, crazy ass mfer sam, dean enabling sam, don’t perceive me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:00:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cucumbercrust
Summary: Sam stares up at him. Those beautiful emerald eyes shouldn't look at Sam like he’s an evil thing. Like he’s doing something wrong.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 7
Kudos: 48





	Sam’s Favorite Color Is Green

Sam had been sick ever since he was five years old.

It was the bowls of lucky charms and the cheap gas station gifts, presented like the holy grail every holiday. It was the way he curled around Sam when he couldn’t sleep, whispering “Nothing’ll get you Sammy, jus’ go to t’bed.” Words sleep slurred and honey thick, encasing Sam in a cocoon of safety and big brother as he slept.  
—  
Trying to return that secure feeling Dean gave him, he'd wrap his sticky, grubby little fingers around one of Deans and feel whole. Sam always felt whole when he was with Dean. Always, always, always.

Being near Dean was like being submerged into a volcano. Sam would gladly suffocate and burn if it meant he could feel needed for a little while.

Sam had been in love ever since he was five years old.  
—

Sam's twelfth birthday consisted of a cheap roadside motel, a twinkie, and some hot wheels Dean had swiped off some poor unsuspecting kid. Sam always felt like he was on cloud nine when it came this time of the year.

He got lavished in Dean’s undivided attention, got to be as close as he wanted. Got to reclaim some of that warmth that had become socially unacceptable after he turned six, Dad only just tolerating the snuggling and cuddling up until Sam was eight.

Quickly nipped it in the bud with a “What are you? A sissy? Men don’t cuddle their brothers, and-“ A searing glare aimed at Dean— “men certainly don’t get coddled by their _big_ brothers. Buck up.”

Sam had bitched until he got beat, and Dean stopped being so close after that.

Now Sam could be as close as he wanted, Dad was never around for his birthdays anyway. The one time he had been, Sam had been four and Dad had collapsed on the couch, blackout drunk. So technically, not there at all.

He’d gotten a coloring book, a belligerent drunk, and a box of crayons for his fourth birthday.

The coloring book should’ve been easy to color in, but Sam felt like he had a gun to his head every time he picked up that box of crayons.

One wrong move and the green crayon he had had clenched in his tiny fist had strayed across the line. Little eyes widened, and a little Sam shook with trepidation and the fear of not being good enough for Dean, for big brother.

Sam wasn’t perfect but he’d been raised to be, so ‘not good enough’ or ‘outside of the lines’ never cut it. He’d clenched the green crayon in his fist tighter then, heard the telltale snap. Sam wailed.

Presenting the defective coloring page to Dean later when he’d asked “Whatcha’ drawin’, buddy?” had had Sam bursting into tears all over again.

That’s how the rest of Sams fourth birthday was spent, snot filled exclamations of “I’m swo sowwy Dee!” met with “Hey hey, ssshh. What’re you bawlin for? Looks great, Sammy.”

“Lil’ Picasso, huh? Give’t here, Sam. Gonna keep this one.” When Sam wouldn’t hand over the coloring book, Dean just pried it from his hands and ripped out the page. Sam let out a gross sob at this and scrabbled for Dean’s pants leg.

“Aw, always been my little perfectionist, Sammy.” Sam snuffled in response and wiped a copious amount of snot on his shirt sleeve.  
Dean tugged his leg free and sat down, pulled Sam close.

Sam remembered looking up through hazy tear filled eyes, just to see Dean looking right back at him with open adoration and a goofy grin plastered onto his beautiful, beautiful face.

Dean scooped him up then, had held him tighter and whispered more soft reassurances, rocking Sam idly back and forth. Looking back, Dean probably hadn’t even realized he was doing it.

Nonetheless, four year old Sammy had devoured gentle reassurances and big brothers warmth like it was his last supper.

Little Sammy was a starving boy.

Sam had always been shattered, broken, even at the delicate age of four. However, Dean had always, would always put him back together again.

The gorilla glue to Sam’s already broken vase.

“Always proud of you, Sammy.”

Sam had felt foolish then, like he was four months old instead of four years, but he buried his flushed, snot covered face into Dean’s neck and allowed himself to be cradled all the same.

He fell asleep that night curled up in Dean’s arms, addicted to Dean and his smell, his clover globes, and all his minuscule freakish freckles.  
—

Sam comes back down to earth upon hearing the _beep beep beep_ of the microwave and the staticy crackle of _Tombstone_ playing on the dingy run down motel TV.

Dean doesn’t even pay him a second glance, eyes glued to the screen as he whistles, “Sam! Popcorn’s ready.” When he doesn’t hear the immediate shuffle of Sam’s feet, he tacks on a “Can you _puh_ lease go get it?” 

Sam doesn’t dignify him with a response. Just licks the inside of his mouth, chases the ever fading traces of twinkie and a breakfast sandwich Dean had bought him earlier.

“Sam!” It had been two fucking seconds.

Sam gets up despite himself, padding over to the microwave. He stomps as loudly as he can on his way over, hopes it pisses Dean off.

He almost trips two times, first narrowly avoiding what looks suspiciously like a cum stain on the carpet, then trying to avoid Dean’s stuff spread haphazardly all over the place.

Sam mutters various obscenities to himself, retrieves the popcorn from the microwave and plops down on the couch next to Dean.

“What.” Sam deadpans, glaring up at Dean, even with the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He pops open the bag and hands it over to Dean. Dean rolls his eyes and Sam feels a socked foot nudge his thigh.

“Thanks, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Sam shifts, crawls over and fits himself in between Dean’s thighs. Scoots back until he’s back to chest with him. He wraps Dean’s arms around him, Dean himself having gone stock still except for a quiet—

“Sammy, what’re you doin’?”

“Relax Dean, jus’ missed you ‘s all.”

“Sam, you see me every day of the fuckin’ year, seriously, what’s gotten into you?”

Sam feels Dean shoving at him slightly, then with a bit more force when Sam doesn’t budge.

Sam butts his head up against Dean’s chest in silent retaliation, pouts and stares up at him. Sam used to sit in Dean’s lap all the time, it shouldn’t make any difference just because he’s a little bit ganglier and a lot bit older.

He feels Dean huff and shift against him, feels something hard poke his backside. Sam’s not an idiot, he knows full well that’s Dean’s dick that’s poking him. Sam tilts his head down to hide his grin as he shifts back against Dean’s chest, burrows himself closer. It’s not his fault if his ass pushes up against Dean’s erect dick. He’s the little brother, after all. Nothing’s ever his fault. He just barely catches the tail end of a whine Dean tried his hardest to stifle. Hears Dean grunt, feels him wriggle.

Sam reaches into the popcorn bag, tosses some into his mouth.

“Sam, dude, seriously. Move, I gotta piss really bad. Like I’m gonna, piss my pants or somethin’.” 

“Then piss yourself, idiot. It’s my twelfth birthday, wanna watch _Tombstone_. Not my fault you didn’t go before hand.” 

“Language, and jesus christ, fine. You’re on laundry duty though, asshole.” Dean cuffs him on the head, glares down at him. 

Dean doesn’t mention how Sam was the one to crawl into his lap, initiate this. He never does. Sam sinks back further into Dean, would sink into him if he could. 

Glances up and sees Dean looking at him evil with a hint of something that looks like panic.

Those beautiful emerald eyes shouldn't look at him like that, shouldn’t look at Sam like he’s an evil thing. Like he’s doing something wrong.

Sam just missed, misses the ever present warmth Dean always seems to be radiating.

Always out of reach and ever since Sam’s been forced from it, he’s been so frigid. So _cold_. He could strangle John for it, forcing him to freeze when his furnace is always less than a foot away.

“Sam, Sammy.—

Dean reaches out, snatches the remote from the coffee table and pauses the movie that Sam wasn’t really watching. 

—Seriously man, what the fuck is up with you? This is like, bizarro levels of freak, even for you.” Dean laughs, Sam picks up on the nervous lilt to it. He doesn’t move.

He can’t, really. Feels too relaxed.

Sam sighs discontentedly, stares up at Dean’s eyes some more, watching the way the colors dip and swirl.

Sam hums.

”Told you, just missed you.” Sam coats his words in maple syrup and honey, makes them sickly sweet. 

Sam shifts so he rests on Dean’s right thigh instead of in-between them. Releases his unrelenting pressure on Dean’s dick, a truce.

Sam scoots until he’s buried into the side of Dean’s chest, wraps his little arms around the all encompassing mass of Dean. 

“Let’s just watch the movie, Dean, please?”

Sam feels the moment Dean goes lax against him, could never say no to his kid brother.

“Ok, sure Sammy.”

Dean turns so he can rest his chin fully on top of Sam’s head. He wraps his arms tighter around Sam, squishes him and brings him in close.

Dean reaches around and grabs the remote, unpausing the TV. Sticks his hand in the buttery popcorn and wipes his hands off on Sam’s face. 

“Dude!” Sam kicks and laughs at him, letting out an accidental snort, which Dean subsequently gives him hell for. 

Sam can tell Dean’s missed this as much, if not more, then him. 

Sam falls asleep that night to the sound of _Tombstone_ and Dean’s incessant snoring. It’s the first time he’d been wrapped up in Dean like this since he was five. Couldn’t have asked for a better birthday present.  
—


End file.
